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When I got home from my trip trip from Chicago, my son told me the cats hadn’t eaten in two days. I tried to hold Lucy, but she wasn’t having it, but she crawled onto my chest in the middle of the night and stayed put. I haven’t seen Charlie though. I guess I am being punished for leaving him again.

Chicago was great. The Art Institute. The Bean. Deep dish pizza. River taxis. Shedd Aquarium. I fell in love with this creature called the sea dragon. It was like a prehistoric fish floating to its own rhythm. There is something mesmerizing about watching fish. The colors. The patterns. It’s like looking at a piece of art that is constantly in motion.

July 2 was our last day in Chicago. I woke up and remembered immediately that it was exactly ten years from the day my parents were buried. It caught my breath, but don’t flatten me. I wasn’t even that sad; my parents are still with me, no matter where I am. Their bonds are strong and ever reaching. Being with my brother these last weeks has reminded me of the solid foundation we were given.

On my last night in Chicago, I was sitting across the table from my brother at an Italian restaurant. He said, “We had a lot of fun growing up.” Even though the table was full of people, for a moment our eyes locked and that statement hung in the air between us, making an instant movie of all our adventures as kids. I got flashes of us standing on the top of a waterfall at a pool in Acapulco, gathering the courage to jump off. I remembered pulling our money together at Gibson’s to buy a raft to sail down the ditch in our neighborhood. I remembered the hours in the backseat of the car playing games that we made up. I saw him as a young man with big shoulders knocking on the door of a guy who stole my stereo, ready to try to get it back for me. He was always so brave and strong and ready for anything. Saying we had a lot of fun growing up is the absolute truth, but it also just doesn’t cover the depth of all that we shared. Or how lucky we are to have had what we had.

So much has happened in my travels that I feel like I have been journeying for a thousand years and have returned to the start of the map a different person. I have been reminded of all my blessings and strengths, then returned home with the power of choice in my pocket. I can feel everyone around me, including myself, trying to predict the next roll of the dice. I need to float around like the sea dragon and think about the next direction.

Part of me wants to just grab a day pass for public transportation and do a Google thrift store search and see if I can find some old Gameboy games for Shayne and a vintage Cubs jersey and maybe a Painted Pony that has been discarded. Big city thrift stores are so fun. I also love discovering restaurants off the beaten path. I wouldn’t mind dropping by the Chicago Mosaic school and picking up some smalti in person, but that’s not what this trip is about.

The first time I came to Chicago, I came with a group of teachers on a tour of American cities to explore the history and bring back our learning to our classrooms. Before the trip, we had to read Upton Sinclair’s, “The Jungle, and other books about the city and its role in shaping the nation. Then we spent ten days touring the area in a luxury bus, walking the raining, steamy streets, gazing up at the city built on the edge of a vast lake, and getting back stage passes to all the places tourists crowd to see. An added attraction for me was that my birth mother also lives in Chicago. I came away feeling connected to the city, like it had claimed a small part of my heart.

I have been back to the city many times since the first time. Each visit takes me to another place, the theater, The Mexican Art museum, a Cubs homestand, music festivals, but this visit I have come as tourist guide for my brother and his family. I am doing Chicago in a new way. Taxis, shopping, photos of famous buildings. Last night I rose above the city on the Centennial Wheel.

Today, we are going to the Chicago Art Institute and I am excited to see the lions and the Impressionists and for my nieces to see the miniature collection. I have never been to the museum and not come away with a sense of awe. I can’t wait for The Bean and the photos that will inevitably come. I think the Bean might actually be the birthplace of selfies. My bed last night was the lap of luxury and I got to wake up and talk to my niece about nothing of importance. I walked with my sis in law along the pier with the early morning enthusiasts and watched the city start to wake up. These are memories I will have forever. And that’s what this trip is about.

Today is my brother, Kevin’s, birthday. It is also the day that my parents were in the fatal car accident and my son began his decent into mental illness. It’s been a decade since that day, and some memories can feel very fresh, but it mostly feels in the past. I am aware of the anniversary, but I am not LIVING the tragedy again. And this year, I am focusing on celebrating my brother, because I get to share the day with him and honestly, I can’t think of anything that brings me as much joy.

A few weeks ago, we were swimming together in the sea and made our way to a dive float in deeper water. I realized as we made our way to the platform, that by his side, I am always a little braver. He always makes everything seem like a good idea and an adventure. If nothing else, it’s gonna be a helluva story to bring to the table later on in the day. That’s what life has always been like with my brother.

For his birthday, I wanted to do something epic, like take him on the Skycoaster at the Royal Gorge, or go hang gliding, or parasailing. My brother used to spend hours trying to figure out how to fly when we were small. I can’t count the number of times I watched him jump off something ridiculously high and crash to the ground, but he believed so hard, that it was impossible not to be infected with the hope that he could defy gravity and soar. I just want to give him a moment of that flight in anyway that I can.

The day in the ocean when we made it to the dive float, a teenage girl climbed up with us and asked if we were married. When we said we were siblings, she commented on how different we looked. Neither of us answered, that’s something that we have heard our whole lives. Being adopted is one those things that can add layers of complexity to simple things, but the truth is that we are siblings in all the ways that really matter. And if I look back on my life, he is my one true thing as far back as I can remember. When I am with him, I feel anchored and strong. I am so thankful that I have got to share my life with such a warm, funny, generous, beautiful person.

There is really nothing I can do or say to truly express all that he means to me, but in a few days we are going to Chicago together. I am going to take him on the Ferris Wheel at Navy Pier. I want him to see the magic of the big city lights below us. Maybe it will remind him of all the carnival rides we were partners on in our childhood. We usually ended the night on the Ferris Wheel, our parents waving to us every rotation. That’s such a strong image of my childhood, like an ongoing loop of color and excitement with my brother at my side and my parents nearby.

All I really want is for life to give us many more opportunities to keep creating memories and stories. So even though, I can’t deny that there is some sadness to this day, I am grateful and blessed to share one more birthday with my brother.

One of my most fundamental memories of growing up was weekends at my grandpa’s. We’d rush into the car after school on Friday and hit the road to get over the pass before dark. My grandpa would always be sitting on his front porch and as soon as we pulled up, he’d be half way down the sidewalk to give his hugs and then he’d rush into the apartment to call my uncles and aunt to let them know that we had arrived and then his hat was on and he was bustling to the store. My brother and I happy to be out of the car, jogged along with him. He’d insist on buying us candy and stuff dollar bills in each of our hands despite our protests. It was our childhood dance with our grandpa.

When we got back to the apartment relatives would already be arriving. By the time supper was on the table, the tiny living room/dining room would be wall to wall people, laughing, telling stories in a mix of English and Spanish, gobbling up my Grandpa’s thickly cut fried potatoes. Even though those occasions were mini-family reunions, the real reunions were even bigger, with all my father’s siblings and their families converging in the mountains of the San Luis Valley for a weekend of swimming, baseball, food, campfire, laughter and memories. The summer reunions always ended with photos. Each family would gather in a spot, then there would be picture of us all together.

When my Grandpa died, I was fifteen. I remember my mom saying, “It’s not going to be the same anymore.” I ddn’t understand that at all. I couldn’t understand why we would quit going to Antonito; I still had aunts and uncles there and many cousins. I wasn’t ready for my weekend visits to end. It turned out that my mom was only kind of right. We didn’t visit the Valley as often, but the reunions didn’t end. They just stopped being in the mountains. We had a couple at the family land in San Luis; we had one at Mineral Palace Park in Pueblo; we had one in Alamosa at a cousin’s house. At some point, my Aunt Marvene stepped up and we began a tradition of gathering in her backyard in Colorado Springs. She wasn’t the oldest sibling, but she became the matriarch and even though the backyard wasn’t the mountains, it was still a great time of gathering together with food and laughter. My favorite part was seeing the little ones of the next generation running around making friends with their cousins they hadn’t met yet. It always made me remember when I was one of the little kids darting among the adults playing some crazy game one of my cousins thought up.

One of the last Colorado Springs reunions was in 2015. My parents had just been killed and I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to go. I will never forget walking into the backyard and seeing my dad’s two brothers sitting side by side. The ghost of my father’s image was there for a minute, stopping me in my footsteps. I remember catching my breath and then my uncles were there again, not Dad, just Joe and Bobby, the two other men that I have always loved like extra dads. My family surrounded me at that time, giving me the strength to get through the loss.

Many more losses have come to our family in the last decade. After the loss of my aunt, the reunions faded away. I had wanted to host, but something always got in the way, finally I decided it was now or never and with the help of my cousins, I said, “Let’s do this.

I didn’t really know what I was signing up for. I have spent the last month being a world traveler and the house and yard were very much neglected. Looking over the weeds, the dust, and the broken back door, I had a week to get everything in order. I started regretting my decision to host. The RSVP’s kept rolling in and as always my hometown tribe showed up for me. Friends brought over coolers and tables and tents. My school teammate and her husband came out in the hot sun to plant flowers and shape up the yard. My brother and his wife arrived from the Philippines to arrange the tents and help with last minute details before the big day. I thought about staying up all night and painting the downstairs bathroom, but I realized I was overthinking as usual. No one would care about the bathroom being blue or white or pink zebra striped. It was my family.

Four generations of Taylors showed up to my little backyard. We had an abundance of food, laughter, and reconnections. I was so surprised at all the millennials that showed up. Their kids were the ones racing through the adults playing with cousins they hadn’t met before. At one point, I went out to the front porch and the two youngest of the Taylor descendants were on the porch swing. Lucas, 4 was riding the swing arm like a horse. Olivia, 2, was sitting so pretty with her big eyes struggling to stay awake through the gentle sway. I realized I was witnessing a first meeting of another generation of cousins. I don’t know if they are old enough to remember the memory, but maybe a small seed of the event will remain with them. Because those times of coming together with my family in the mountains as a child built my foundation. I might not see my cousins everyday, or share my day to day moments with them, but they are my core, my center, and gathering with them is like drinking from a well of strength.

I was completely exhausted when everyone left and putting everything away and returning all the borrowed items was overwhelming to the point of tears, but my brothers came to help. For the first time since my parents died, there was peace between all of us, there was no mention of sadness or anger. I didn’t know that bringing all my family together would offer peace and healing, but the power of coming together has always been transformative, so I am not surprised, just grateful.

I don’t know if I will host another reunion, but I am sure there will be more. The legacy my grandpa started has cast its net far and wide and I hope will continue to touch many more generations to come.

I am not sure why the last 30 miles of a van ride with students is always the hardest. I am always so ready to drop them off and get home. I want an ice cold beverage and my cats and to relax in something soft, like a bed, or the couch. I really am considering giving my sleeping bag away and making a blood vow to never sleep in another one, except, I actually would do road school again. I believed in everything about it. It felt valuable and impactful and beautiful.

The last two days were spent in Denver. We went to History Colorado, the aquarium, a dance class, and an immersive art space. We did an exit interview and the bad ass hard edged boys claimed me for their group. Not a huge surprise because we went to Turquoise Lake together and watched a storm roll over the mountains and it was magical and unforgettable. I also get them. They are ready to be grown up and be men, even though they really have no idea what that means, because who really does in this world? They feel lost and unsure, but don’t want to admit that to anyone, not even themselves.

They told me they were glad they came on the trip, and they loved the mountains and the city and think that they could apply their learning to real life. One of them hugged me, which was a surprise, and all of them said thank you, which was a bigger surprise. I told them that if I see them around and they don’t say, “hi,” I will be super offended. They laughed. I don’t know if I will see them again, but I won’t forget them.

It might be years down the road before all the learning of Field Academy becomes clear to these kids. For myself, I am still processing the take aways. I experienced so much that I am really just thinking it through right now. Maybe after I get some quality sleep, my thoughts will be more coherent.

So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours. Mostly I have become deeply aware of two things. I hate sleeping on the ground and kids are kids. Don’t hang out with them if you expect gratitude, or respect. Not that there aren’t moments of both those things in varying amounts, but in general, teenagers are very self-absorbed and it is exhausting.

Yesterday, we hiked a short distance to a water fall in the Dominguez-Escalante National Conservation Area. If unfamiliar with the canyon, it’s a spectacular place carved by the Gunnison River with slick red rock walls, arroyos, and flat top mountains. There are falcons and big horn sheep and Ute petroglyphs. I was blown away. Most of the kids-less. I was partners with a boy during a game to identify symbiotic relationships. He was a flower; I was a bee. He didn’t think we had a symbiotic relationship, because as a flower he thought there were plenty and no more were necessary, meaning pollination was a waste of time. The guide was great. She thanked him for his interesting perspective. I thought I was doing good to not roll my eyes and tell him that he should perhaps think the same thoughts concerning his personal reproduction. It’s thoughts like this that remind me that I am too old for this job. While most of the kids sat in the heat and pouted, the adults splashed around in the waterfall.

On the drive to Denver, the van stalled out in Parachute. I was left with the kids at a big Love’s with a McDonalds while a mechanic was consulted. I listened to the boys debate whether Mississippi had a shoreline for a very long time. I also texted a few friends asking if they would come kidnap me.

We finally landed at a church near downtown Denver. The church hosts a variety of twelve step programs. One was about to start in the church courtyard when we arrived, we either had to stay in the basement during the meeting or leave the building and chill in the park across the street and had two minutes to decide. We decided out, but had a cringy moment of the, “Hi, I am….” as we walked past.

I tried not to make eye contact with the people in the circle to protect their privacy, but the voices echoed in my head as we made our way to the park. I don’t talk about my son’s addictions much, but his struggle with substances is real. I recognize that meds don’t drown the voices and he turns to other things to help. He has made gains, and has had his falls. It is one of the most powerless parts of mothering I have experienced. Most days, I feel part of the web. I don’t have to be an addict myself to feel the pain of the problem. It doesn’t help that I am hyper aware that it is the tenth anniversary of the first signs of psychosis. I can’t quite shake the image of watching a paramedic sink a needle into his arm to stop his screams. I know we have come a long way since that day, so I don’t know why the memory is so fresh. I do wonder if it will ever feel differently.

When I was in the park with kids last night, watching the lights of the city begin to blink on, I realized that even though I am ready for the trip to be over, I do love Denver. The kids will probably yawn and pout when we have our Haitian dance lesson, but the memories will be there and hopefully they will be the kind to reach for when things are dark.

Another blog post from inside my sleeping bag. The last time I wrote from inside a sleeping bag, (yesterday) I was trying to keep warm. Now I am trying to keep the light out. The accommodations are in the basement of a Unitarian church with emergency lights that don’t shut off. Other than the light, this has been the best overnight so far. There is carpet and couches, and cushions and foamy blocks that one of the kids built a bed from. The church people brought us dinner AND breakfast and have just been incredibly nice. I slept better here, but only a little.

The third day of Road School was a slower pace. We only had one activity–a visit to Thistle Whistle farm outside of Paonia. There we saw a goat milking demonstration and also had a tour of some of the greenhouses and fields. The farmer grows a wide variety of plants. He had the class sample herbs and greens he had gathered and he told origin stories about the species and why he was growing particular items, and offered test tastes. He allowed us to pet goats and then we helped him organize an entire shed of planting containers. It was really hot, but also really fun.

The afternoon brought us to Grand Junction. There was no escaping my memories of living in this area when the flattop mountains came into view. I saw the Barnes and Noble that Shayne and I spent every weekend, the mall with the arcade and the movie theater. I remembered how hard it was that year to be away from my family and friends and everything that I was used to. And it made me realize that I have essentially been away from my home for three weeks now. I am not obsessively worried about Shayne, but thoughts of him flit through my day. Is he okay? Is he taking care of himself? Is he taking his medicine? June has not been historically a good month for us and even if I try not to think too much, the memories come anyway. Driving through the streets in a place where my little boy was joyful is bittersweet.

I had some downtime today and I created a cartoon about the fish hatchery and started some ideas to create more meaningful written curriculum to connect experiences with learning. I wonder if anyone is learning as much as I am. Mostly, I thought about how this road trip could make a great reality show or documentary. Maybe I need a GoPro for whatever comes next in my life.

I am writing this post from inside my sleeping bag. It’s 50 degrees and the wind gusts are three miles per hour. I am dressed warmly, and I have tried to tuck myself tightly into the bag to avoid any air seepage. It’s not working because I am cold. I could go in the old trading post where we are staying to finish out the night, but that’s on a hardwood floor. At least outside there is comfortable porch furniture. To a point. The roughest part of Road School is sleeping. To get through three more nights of this might require a stop for an air mattress.

Day two of Road School took us over Independence Pass which I vaguely remember traversing as a child with mom clinging to the dash board with her eyes squeezed shut, tears of fear running down her face. That’s probably why I don’t remember the breathtaking views from the summit.

While I snapped photos, the students drew pictures of plants they saw and made observations to compare with vegetation at the altitude we live.

The real destination for the day was Paonia, Colorado, a small community nestled in a valley of towering peaks. Many years ago, I spent a year on the Western slope near Paonia, and vowed I would never return. I was a little afraid that memories would resurface, but when I saw the sign for the town I lived in, not much stirred. Instead, I just remembered how breathtakingly beautiful it is with the roaring rivers, picturesque creeks, the spring run off bringing cascading waterfalls to the roadways, green, green meadows and wild flowers everywhere. This is the Colorado on the postcards.

In Paonia, we stopped at the Learning Council which is a place that uses locally grown produce to make food and feed the community. We entered a large commercial kitchen, washed our hands, donned aprons, and started chopping greens, sautéing onions, and building empanadas.

There were about five or six volunteers when we arrived at the kitchen. I have to believe that fourteen extra pair of hands shortened the work time. I saw the regular volunteers walking around as we wrapped up, kind of amazed that the work was done hours before the deadline. The food that was prepared was served at whatever cost patrons could afford at the evening Farmer’s Market. For such a small town, the market was impressive-live music, a lot of produce, a few artisans with products also locally sourced–Alpaca yarn, honey, soaps and candles scented with lavender and other fragrances grown in the valley. It was a great way for students to see how production, processing, and consumption work together. It was also fun to hear them say things like–“You’re eating the empanada that I made!”

In two days, I have seen so much growth in these kids. They are starting to take off their armor and open up to new experiences. Last night, they all set off on a walk around the trading post land together, excited to see the stars without light pollution. One of them even knew about the strawberry moon. (I had to google it.)

The sun is coming up; I can hear the kids stirring. I have two goals for the day: Be open for the new experiences. Buy an air mattress.

I guess this is my summer of firsts. First time of Asian travel, first time of sea kayaking, first time of grilled squid, and now my first day of Road School. I have had many first days with classes of kids, but I have never met them in a parking lot ready to get to know each other in a moving landscape. Like all my new adventures I have had recently, it was exciting and inspiring.

Here’s a list of things we did the first day: 1. Watched people surf the waves at the wave park in Salida. The kids were asked to choose three surfers and calculate their time in the waves for three trials and then average the times and make observations about elements that impacted the rides. 2. The next stop was a fish hatchery. We learned the process of egg to river or lake release and got to see most of the stages of the fish and then got to feed them. 3. After a short drive, we climbed out of the van in Leadville and climbed onto mountain bikes to hit the trails. 4. If that wasn’t enough, we settled in Leadville in a church community center. The kids made dinner and had some choice time. They could walk around town (supervised) or take a trip to Turquoise Lake for sunset fishing. 5. School wasn’t out until after a study hall which included journaling, a quick math drill, and a quick grammar practice. 6. The kids (and instructors) were so tired that bedtime was easy.

I really didn’t do any of the planning for the day, or design any of the curriculum. I felt very much along for ride. I showed some kids how to average; I took some kids off the single track trail when their fear became apparent. I bought nightcrawlers and drove the fisherboys out to Turquoise Lake. I ended my day walking around helping kids with math and grammar. The day was easy mentally, but physically a bit demanding and sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag, definitely made me realize that I am decades older than everyone on this ride.

My take away is a lot deeper though. These kids are quiet, trying not to draw attention to themselves. They keep their eyes averted hoping not to be seen. As the day went on, glimmers of their personalities began to break through. The boys thanked me for taking them to the lake and we all agreed how stunning it was to watch night fall on the water.

My thoughts and emotions are whirling with the day’s experiences. I can see how the program is to teach kids to take risks by trying new experiences. Failure is not an option because with trying comes learning. For me, I can see how being in the classroom has given me the tools to be great at being out of the classroom. My mind is whirring with ideas for portfolio development and lessons to really capitalize on the activities. I am not going to get ahead of myself though. There is a lot of road ahead on this journey.

I have been home from the Philippines almost a week. Usually when I get back from a trip, I am happy to sleep in my own bed and be around all that’s familiar. I didn’t feel any of that upon my return. It was good to hold my cats, see my son and connect with my friends, but I realized that this house, this town, this place is symbolic of the cage I have put myself in. I am antsy for change, freedom.

The house was much as I left it, despite, three teenagers, a man, two cats, and a part-time dog being in the house while I was gone. No one did a damn thing with the yard. I believe it rained everyday for two weeks and my weeds flourished. I have spent the last three days waging a war on taking my yard back.

I have thoughts on gardening that aren’t all positive, but one great thing about it is that it allows a lot of contemplation time. People keep asking me if I am moving to the Philippines. While my experience there was life changing, it really stirred other desires rather than retiring and living like a queen.

I keep thinking about the bone thin cats, and scraped up dogs, and shelters built from tin and plastic. I think about walking in the rainforest and seeing for myself the delicate green leaves reaching for the light. It stirred this great desire of humanitarianism inside my soul. Also it made me yearn for all the vistas I have yet to experience. It made me realize that I still want to help others, help the world, help kids, but I also need the freedom to be creative and not be bound to four walls and a single text. I need to be able to breathe.

The weeds have not been completely demolished and I didn’t get to painting the bathroom, or cleaning the porches, but I am leaving home again. This time in a van with high school kids failing at school. Some of them I have known since kindergarten, some of them are new to me. I don’t really know all their stories or the reasons why they are not succeeding at school, but I understand how the expectations of the classroom can be disjointed. I understand about checking out and failing. In some ways, I have been floundering in the classroom, feeling stifled and unable to help kids the way I feel they need to be helped.

The offer to join road school came at just the right time for me. The idea of going on the road with kids speaks to me. It’s a way to bring new vistas, and rekindle hope for kids who are struggling to find their way. It’s creative, brave, and challenging.

I feel both excited and nervous about this new adventure and even though I know I should be rested for my first day on the road. I couldn’t sleep and when I did I dreamed I was in the backyard of the house I grew up in. It was different. The grass showed signs of being mowed, but was too tall in places. The bamboo was growing in random places, instead of in the patch by the pond. The pond was gone, but the trees were still there, but trimmed way back; the giant limbs cut short. I walked around remembering how things used to be. The mower was out and my dad’s faded red toolbox was nearby. The house was empty, but the kitchen was full of snacks Mom had made for my trip. My old art students were with me, one of them grabbing up a sweatshirt I left behind on the over grown grass and another hitting the garage door button so we could pull the van onto the road. I woke up thinking about all that.

I can see how this dream took me back to my foundations of my youth. My parents gave me tools and nourished me with love which is at my core. The yard symbolizes that while I have transformed, there are many things still growing and continuing to flourish. My art students reminded me of my creativity and how much comfort and joy creating gives me and I love sharing that joy with others.

All the roads I have traveled have lead me right here. Road School might be the perfect blend of all my gifts, talents, and experiences. I am ready to share the magic of new vistas with students. May it continue to be transforming and life changing for us all.